Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Dutertre, wiping the drops of cold sweat from his brow, “but at the very thought of such an unexpected blow which would strike all that I hold dearest in the world, my honour, my family, my labour — Ah, yes, monsieur, you are right, let us drive this thought far from us, it is too horrible.”

  “Eh! my God, that is just what I was saying to you; do not let us make this charming day a sad one. So, to finish the matter,” added M. Pascal, cheerfully, “let us hurry over business affairs, let us empty our bag, as the saying is. Give me this letter, and we will talk no more about it.”

  Dutertre started, a frightful pain wrung his heart, and he replied:

  “Such persistence astonishes and distresses me, monsieur. I repeat to you it is absolutely impossible for me to do what you ask.”

  “What a child you are! my persistent request proves to you how much importance I attach to this affair.”

  “That may be, monsieur.”

  “And why do I attach such importance to it, my brave Dutertre? It is because this matter interests you as well as myself.”

  “What do you mean, monsieur?”

  “Eh! without doubt. My combination with the house of Durand failing, since your refusal would prevent my employing this knave Marcelange, as I desire (you do not wish to know my secrets, so I am forced to keep them), perhaps I should be compelled for certain reasons,” added M. Pascal, pronouncing his words slowly, and looking at his victim with a sharp, cold eye, “I say, perhaps I should be compelled — and it would draw the blood from my heart — to demand the repayment of my capital, and withdraw my credit from you.”

  “Oh, my God!” exclaimed Dutertre, clasping his hands and looking as pale as a ghost.

  “So you see, bad man, in what an atrocious position you put yourself. Force me to an action which, I repeat to you, would tear my soul—”

  “But, monsieur, a moment ago you assured me that—”

  “Zounds! my intention would be to let you keep this wretched capital as long as possible. You pay me the interest with remarkable punctuality, it was perfectly well placed, and, thanks to our terms of liquidation, you would have been free in ten years, and I should have made a good investment in doing you a service.”

  “Really, monsieur,” murmured Dutertre, overwhelmed, “such were your promises, if not written, at least verbal, and the generosity of your offer, the loyalty of your character, all gave me perfect confidence. God grant that I may not have to consider myself the most rash, the most stupid man, to have trusted your word!”

  “As to that, Dutertre, you can be at peace with yourself; at that period of commercial crisis, at least as terrible as it is to-day, you could not have found anywhere the capital that I offered you at such a moderate rate.”

  “I know it, monsieur.”

  “Then you can, and you must, indeed, by sheer force of necessity, accept the condition I put upon this loan.”

  “But, monsieur,” cried Dutertre, with inexpressible alarm, “I appeal to your honour! You have expressly promised me that—”

  “Eh, my God, yes, I promised you, saving the superior force of events; and unfortunately your refusal to give this poor little letter creates an event of stronger force which places me in the painful — the grievous necessity of asking you for repayment of my money.”

  “But, monsieur, it is an unworthy action that you ask me to do, think of it.”

  At this moment was heard the sweet ringing laughter of Sophie, who was approaching the parlour.

  “Ah, monsieur,” said her husband, “not a word of this before my wife, because it may not be your final resolve. I hope that—”

  Charles Dutertre could not finish, because Sophie had entered the parlour.

  The unhappy man could only make a supplicating gesture to Pascal, who responded to it by a sign of sympathetic intelligence.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  WHEN SOPHIE DUTERTRE entered the parlour, where were seated her husband and M. Pascal, the gracious countenance of the young woman, more flushed than usual, the light throbbing of her bosom, and her moist eyes, all testified to a recent fit of hilarious laughter.

  “Ah, ah, Madame Dutertre!” said M. Pascal, cheerfully. “I heard you distinctly; you were laughing like a lunatic.”

  Then, turning to Dutertre, who was trying to hide his intense distress and to hold on to a last hope, he said:

  “How gay happiness makes these young women! Nothing like the sight of them puts joy in the heart, does it, my brave Dutertre?”

  “I was laughing in spite of myself, I assure you, my dear M. Pascal,” replied Sophie.

  “In spite of yourself?” answered our hero. “Why, does some sorrow—”

  “Sorrow? Oh, no, thank God! But I was more disposed to tenderness than gaiety. This dear Antonine, if you only knew her, Charles,” added the young woman, with sweet emotion, addressing her husband. “I cannot tell you how she has moved me, what a pure, touching confession she has made to me, for the heart of the poor child was too full, and she could not go away without telling me all.”

  And a tear of sympathy moistened Sophie’s beautiful eyes.

  At the name of Antonine, M. Pascal, notwithstanding his great control over himself, started. His thoughts concerning this young girl, for a moment postponed, returned more ardent, more persistent than ever, and as Sophie was wiping her eyes he threw upon her a penetrating glance, trying to divine what he might hope from her, in reference to the plan he meditated.

  Sophie soon spoke, addressing her husband:

  “But, Charles, — I will relate it all to you, after awhile, — while I was absorbed in thinking of my interview with Antonine, my little Madeleine came to me, and said in her baby language such ridiculous things that I could not keep from bursting into laughter. But, pardon me, M. Pascal, your heart will understand and excuse, I know, all a mother’s weakness.”

  “Do you say that to me,” replied Pascal, cordially, “a bachelor, — you say it to me, a good old fellow?”

  “That is true,” added Sophie, affectionately, “but we love you so much here, you see, that we think you are right to call yourself a good old fellow. Ask Charles if he will contradict my words.”

  Dutertre replied with a constrained smile, and he had the strength and the courage to restrain his feelings before his wife to such a degree that she, occupied with M. Pascal, had not the least suspicion of her husband’s anxiety. So, going to the table and taking up the purse she had embroidered, she presented it to M. Pascal, and said to him, in a voice full of emotion:

  “My dear M. Pascal, this purse is the fruit of my evening work, — evenings that I have spent here with my husband, with his excellent father, and with my children. If each one of these little steel beads could speak, all would tell you how many times your name has been pronounced among us, with all the affection and gratitude it deserves.”

  “Ah, thank you, thank you, my dear Madame Dutertre,” replied Pascal, “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this pretty present, this lovely remembrance, — only, you see, it embarrasses me a little.”

  “How is that?”

  “You come to give me something, and I came to ask you something.”

  “What happiness! Ask, ask, by all means, dear M. Pascal.”

  Then turning to her husband, with surprise, she said:

  “Charles, what are you doing there, seated before that desk?”

  “M. Pascal will excuse me. I just recollected that I had neglected to examine some notes relative to important business,” replied Dutertre, turning the leaves of some papers, to keep himself in countenance, and to hide from his wife, to whom he had turned his back, the pain which showed itself in his face.

  “My dear,” said Sophie, in a tone of tender reproach; “can you not lay aside work now and wait until—”

  “Madame Dutertre, I shall rebel if you disturb your husband on my account,” cried M. Pascal, “do I not know the exactness of business? Come, come, happy woman that y
ou are, thanks to the indefatigable labour of brave Dutertre, who stands to-day at the head of his business.”

  “And who has encouraged him in his zeal for work, but you, M. Pascal? If Charles is as you say at the head of his industry, if our future and that of our children is ever assured, do we not owe it to you?”

  “My dear Madame Dutertre, you confuse me so that I shall not know how to ask the little service I expect from you.”

  “Oh, I forgot it,” replied Sophie, smiling, “but we were speaking of more important services that you have rendered us, were we not? But tell us quick, quick, — what is it?” said the young woman, with an eagerness which gave her an additional charm.

  “What I am going to tell you will surprise you, perhaps?”

  “So much the better, I adore surprises.”

  “Ah, well, the isolation of bachelor life weighs upon me, and—”

  “And?”

  “I wish to get married.”

  “Truly!”

  “Does it astonish you? I am sure it does.”

  “You are entirely mistaken, for in my opinion you ought to get married.”

  “Pray, why?”

  “How often I have said to myself, sooner or later this good M. Pascal, who lives so much by his heart, will enjoy the sweets of family life, and, if I must confess my vain presumption,” added Sophie, “I said to myself, it is impossible that the sight of the happiness Charles and I enjoy should not some day suggest the idea of marriage to M. Pascal. Now, was I not happy in foreseeing your intention?”

  “Have your triumph, then, dear Madame Dutertre, because, in fact, seduced by your example and that of your husband, I desire to make, as you two did, a marriage of love.”

  “Can any other marriage be possible?” replied Sophie, shrugging her shoulders with a most graceful movement, and, without reflecting upon the thirty-eight years of M. Pascal, she added:

  “And you are loved?”

  “My God, that depends on you.”

  “On me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “On me?” exclaimed Sophie, with increasing surprise. “Do you hear, Charles, what M. Pascal says.”

  “I hear,” replied Dutertre, who, not less astonished than his wife, was listening with involuntary anxiety.

  “How can I, M. Pascal, how can I make you loved?” asked Sophie.

  “You can do so, my dear Madame Dutertre.”

  “Although it seems incomprehensible to me, bless God for it. If I have the magic power you attribute to me, my dear M. Pascal,” replied Sophie, with her sweetest smile, “then you will be loved, as you deserve to be.”

  “Counting on your promise, then, I will not travel four roads, but confess at once, my dear Madame Dutertre, that I am in love with Mlle. Antonine Hubert.”

  “Antonine!” exclaimed Sophie, astounded; while Dutertre, seated before his desk, turned abruptly to his wife, whose astonishment he shared.

  “Antonine!” replied Sophie, as if she could not believe what she had heard. “You love Antonine!”

  “Yes, it is she. I met her to-day in your house, for the fourth time, only I have never spoken to her. However, my mind is made up, for I am one of those people who decide quickly and by instinct. For instance, when it was necessary for me to come to the aid of this brave Dutertre, the thing was done in two hours. Well, the ravishing beauty of Mlle. Antonine, the purity of her face, a something, I know not what, tells me that this young person has the best qualities in the world, — all has contributed to render me madly in love with her, and to desire in a marriage of love, like yours, my dear Madame Dutertre, that inward happiness, those joys of the heart, that you believe me worthy of knowing and enjoying.”

  “Monsieur,” said Sophie, with painful embarrassment, “permit me—”

  “One word more, it is love at first sight, you will say, — that may be, but there are twenty examples of love as sudden as they are deep. Besides, as I have told you, I am plainly a man of instinct, of presentiment; with a single glance of the eye, I have always judged a thing good or bad. Why should I not follow in marriage a method which has always perfectly succeeded with me? I have told you that it depends entirely on you to make Mlle. Antonine love me. I will explain. At fifteen years, and she seems hardly to be so old as that, young girls have no wills of their own. You have acted as mother to Mlle. Antonine, as Dutertre has told me; you possess great influence over her, nothing would be more easy, by talking to her of me in a certain manner, when you shall have presented me to her, and that can be not later than to-morrow, can it not? I repeat, it will be easy for you to induce her to share my love, and to marry me. If I owe you this happiness, my dear Madame Dutertre, wait and see,” added Pascal, with a tone full of emotion and sincerity. “You speak of gratitude? Well, that which you have toward me would be ingratitude, compared with what I would feel toward you!”

  Sophie had listened to M. Pascal with as much grief as surprise; for she believed, and she had reason to believe, in the reality of the love, or rather the ardent desire for possession that this man felt; so she replied, with deep feeling, for it cost her much to disappoint hopes which seemed to her honourable:

  “My poor M. Pascal, you must see that I am distressed not to be able to render you the first service you ask of me. I need not tell you how deeply I regret it.”

  “What is impossible in it?”

  “Believe me, do not think of this marriage.”

  “Does not Mlle. Antonine deserve—”

  “Antonine is an angel. I have known her from infancy. There is not a better heart, a better character, in the world.”

  “What you tell me, my dear Madame Dutertre, would suffice to augment my desire, if that could be done.”

  “I say again, this marriage is impossible.”

  “Well, tell me why.”

  “In the first place, think of it, Antonine is only fifteen and a half, and you—”

  “I am thirty-eight. Is it that?”

  “The difference of age is very great, you must confess, and as I would not advise my daughter or my sister to make a marriage so disproportionate, I cannot advise Antonine to do so, because I would not at any price make your unhappiness or hers.”

  “Oh, make yourself easy! I will answer for my own happiness.”

  “And that of Antonine?”

  “Bah! bah! for a few years, more or less—”

  “I married for love, my dear M. Pascal. I do not comprehend other marriages. Perhaps it is wrong, but indeed I think so, and I ought to tell you so, since you consult me.”

  “According to you, then, I am not capable of pleasing Mlle. Antonine?”

  “I believe that, like Charles and myself, and like all generous hearts, she would appreciate the nobility of your character, but—”

  “Permit me again, my dear Madame Dutertre, — a child of fifteen years has no settled ideas on the subject of marriage; and Mlle. Antonine has a blind confidence in you. Present me to her; tell her all sorts of good about the good man, Pascal. The affair is sure, — if you wish to do it, you can.”

  “Hear me, my dear M. Pascal, this conversation grieves me more than I can tell you, and to put an end to it I will trust a secret to your discretion and your loyalty.”

  “Very well, what is this secret?”

  “Antonine loves, and is loved. Ah, M. Pascal, nothing could be purer or more affecting than this love, and, for many reasons, I am certain it will assure Antonine’s happiness. Her uncle’s health is precarious, and should the poor child lose him she would be obliged to live with relatives who, not without reason, inspire her with aversion. Once married according to the dictate of her heart, she can hope for a happy future, for her warm affection is nobly placed. You must see, then, my dear M. Pascal, that, even with my influence, you would have no chance of success, and how can I give you my influence, with the approval of my conscience, leaving out of consideration the disparity of age, which, in my opinion, is an insuperable objection? I am sure, and I do not spe
ak lightly, that the love which Antonine both feels and inspires ought to make her happy throughout her life.”

  At this confirmation of Antonine’s love for Frantz, a secret already half understood by M. Pascal, he was filled with rage and resentment, which was all the more violent for reason of the refusal of Madame Dutertre, who declined to enter into his impossible plans; but he restrained himself with a view of attempting a last effort. Failing in that, he resolved to take a terrible revenge. So, with apparent calmness, he replied:

  “Ah, so Mlle. Antonine is in love! Well, so be it; but we know, my dear Madame Dutertre, what these grand passions of young girls are, — a straw fire. You can blow it out; this beautiful love could not resist your influence.”

  “I assure you, M. Pascal, I would not try to influence Antonine upon this subject, for it would be useless.”

  “You think so?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  “Bah! it is always worth while to try.”

  “But I tell you, sir, that Antonine—”

  “Is in love! I understand, and more, the good old bachelor Pascal is thirty-eight, and evidently not handsome, but on the other hand he has some handsome little millions, and when this evening (for you will see her this evening, will you not? I count on it) you make this unsophisticated maiden comprehend that, if love is a good thing, money is still better, for love passes and money stays, she will follow your counsel, dismiss her lover to-morrow, and I will have no more to say but ‘Glory and thanks to you, my dear Madame Dutertre!’”

  Sophie stared at M. Pascal in amazement. Her womanly sensitivity was deeply shocked, and her instinct told her that a man who could talk as M. Pascal had done was not the man of good feeling and rectitude that she had believed him to be.

  At this moment, too, Dutertre rose from his chair, showing in his countenance the perplexity which agitated his mind; for the first time, his wife observed the alteration of his expression, and exclaimed as she advanced to meet him:

  “My God! Charles, how pale you are! Are you in pain?”

  “No, Sophie, nothing is the matter with me, — only a slight headache.”